


Take This Waltz

by aph606 (trilogycal)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Developing Relationship, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Temporary Character Death, since. hetalia canon is life canon i guess this counts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 03:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12808812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trilogycal/pseuds/aph606
Summary: In the aftermath of WWII, the Allied Council comes to an agreement -- an agreement that's different than what we know.Prussia isn't the one who is abolished. In this timeline, his blame is shifted onto another nation, which leads to their dissolution in his stead. Those who were important to this nation are left despaired; others are indifferent. Prussia likes to consider himself in the second category, and tries to move on.He's successful, until they appear in his life once again, nearly thirty years after their death.// title in work. multichapter, occasional updates (once a month?). rating changes/tags/characters to be added as they come. please comment & leave feedback!





	Take This Waltz

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally written in 2014, when i was still in the peak of my hetalia days. i found it in my drafts earlier this year, decided it wasn't too bad, and cleaned it up. (version 1.3.0., now with present tense!). if it's too bad....
> 
> then deal with it. (in a nice way, if you can). bc i like the idea & want to occasionally revisit it when i have the time.

_25 February, 1947_

Prussia would rather be anywhere else at the moment. 

He's sitting at a long table that's made of sturdy, glossy oak that he's drumming his fingers on. Forced into a suit and tie by his superiors and brother, and trapped in this suffocating room by guards and a locked doorknob, he can't escape this meeting, no matter how much he wants to. 

The room is freezing cold. The windows are frosted with ice, and snow is being blown sideways outside. But all of them were told to leave their coats in the designated room, so all of them have stiff fingers, numb noses, and chattering teeth. There's someone sitting on the other side of his brother Germany who looks particularly cold; Austria is shivering, arms tucked tightly across his chest. His mind is clearly somewhere else, distant with thoughts of warm snacks; maybe knödel of some kind, or torte? Mm, Austria is one of the best bakers in their council of nations. Wait-- dammit, even when he isn't trying, that Austrian is tempting his focus with delicious sweets. 

"Prussia," is whispered in his ear, in German. It's his brother, and he looks annoyed. "Stop making that face during such conversation. It's freaking everybody out."

"Sorry," he mutters, "I was thinking about bugging Austria until he bakes me some apricot knödel."

"I will be doing no such thing." Austria leans back in his chair and narrows his eyes at Prussia from over Germany's shoulder. "I don't even own an oven at the moment, Prussia. Rearrange your priorities."

"Hey, don't you scold me," Prussia hisses at him. "Stop acting like my wife! Just make me knödel! You can come and use our kitchen."

"Me coming over and baking you sweets is more wife-like than anything else, you idiot."

"If you baked more than you nagged at me for nothing at all, then you'd be great wife material."

"Shut up, both of you!" Germany snaps as quietly as he can. "We are in the middle of a very important conversation and all you can discuss is knödel?! Behave like adults for once! I'm a thousand years younger than both of you and I'm taking this more seriously than the both of you combined!" 

Austria straightens up, hiding behind the brick wall that is Germany's torso once again. "We are _not_ that old," he huffs indignantly. "Especially not _me_. Do your math properly next time."

"Yeah." Prussia huffs similarly, remaining leaned back in the chair, the top of it digging into his shoulder blades. "You're only a few hundred years younger, not a millennium. Try again, kid." 

A voice clears their throat from the other side of the table. All three of them redirect their attention to the Allied Control Council seated before them, who have stopped their hushed debating to listen to the bickering. The Soviet Union and the United States both look bored, with the former adjusting the fingers of his black leather glove while the latter taps a pen against his palm. France and England, seated on opposite ends of the chairs with Russia separating them, are used to their nattering and almost manage to not look uncomfortable while it's happening. 

"Done?" America asks. 

Prussia grits his teeth at the snide tone. "Are you? Those negotiations took an awfully long time. I was starting to get bored." 

"Can you just shut up, for once?" Germany snaps. "I apologize for... him. He can't help being obnoxious, don't blame him for that."

"Hey, I'm not obnoxious!" Prussia argues. 

"Yes, you are," Germany replies flatly. His answer is two-toned; Austria joins in at the exact same time. "Can we please commence with this meeting?" Austria continues, leaning forward to make eye contact with each of the Allies. His English is accented; he sounds like a hick, in Prussia's opinion. "We're all cold and hungry and stiff from these horrible chairs. Just deliver your verdicts so I can go home." 

The atmosphere in the room changes. Prussia senses it; his sharp eyes catch France bringing a hand up to his face, rubbing over his mouth and pushing his hair back. They're sitting on diagonal ends of the table, but when their eyes make contact, he can see the remorse and discomfort there like they're inches apart. England, on the other side of Russia, shifts his leg position; his shoulders are just as tensed as France's. They both know something, and they aren't being subtle about what kind of information it is. Prussia glances at the other two assembled Allies. Russia is still adjusting his glove with sharp tugs at the leather strap around the wrist, and America is staring down at the table, pen hitting his palm at a furious, anxious pace. 

"About that.." the latter says, eyes flickering up to Austria. 

Austria raises his eyebrows expectantly. "About what?" he asks blandly. 

England says something for the first time since the initial greetings. "It's you," he says. "Our bosses have all converged, and decided that a dissolution of the responsible party was necessary." 

"Wait, wait, wait! You decided that _that_ loser is the most responsible for this?" Prussia doesn't realize that he's standing until Germany rises with him, a hand on his shoulder, whispering 'calm down' in German in his ear. "How the hell do you come to the conclusion that Austria is who you're pinning blame on?! The guy hasn't won a war by himself in hundreds of years!" Prussia's eyes angrily fly from nation to nation, blazing like fire. The side of his face prickles, where he can feel Austria's stare land. 

America begins hesitantly, "Well, he did start the first war, right?" Prussia isn't looking at him, but he knows that Austria winces. "It's obvious to everyone that that war screwed everyone up, in terms of.. well, everything. Finances, infrastructure, everything essential to your economies. The fact that you guys couldn't reach a good agreement and just blamed everything on Germany here is what caused this second war." He places his pen down, and stares at Prussia from behind glass planes, bound in place by thin wires. "We haven't even finished trying to calculate the toll for this one, but it's in the millions, just for the camps and stuff by themselves." 

"And where did your boss come from?" They all look at Russia, who also speaks. He's wearing a stiff smile and staring right at Austria. It's chilling to the bone, and Prussia isn't even being stared at. 

"Wh.." Germany tries to speak, but he's so bewildered that he can't form words for a second. "Where he was born and grew up.. has no bearing on his actions...!" 

"It isn't like I personally trained him to be like that myself!" Austria sounds a little hysterical. He waves a hand, and Prussia vaguely realizes that it's a gesture toward his head. His soft brown locks were still much shorter than he'd worn them before the war started, and they were growing out choppily, some sections of hair shorter than others. He's still walking with a cane, limping like he's still freshly injured. And, Prussia knows for a fact that there's a six-number reminder on his left forearm that no one can ignore. "That man betrayed me like he betrayed Germany, and Prussia, and every single one of his people! I have never condoned his beliefs, his actions... how is this all my fault..?!" 

Prussia clenches his fists so tightly that his fingers hurt. "It's not," he spits, cutting off America before he can say a word. He doesn't even bother using English. "They simply want to blame somebody. You're weak right now; dispensible. That's why they chose you, Austrian, and not me, or Germany." 

Austria looks despaired, violet eyes shining with misery as they make eye contact. "That," he says, "doesn't make me feel better." 

"I'm not trying to provide comfort," Prussia snarls, "just an explanation." There are emotions roiling around in his chest, which feels constricted and tight. Anger boils in his veins, and he closes his eyes, takes advantage of it and pushes the more troublesome emotions back into the recesses of his mind. 

When he opens his eyes again, Austria isn't looking at him anymore; he has his head in his hands, no longer a pillar of strength and regality. He's in crumbles, right here at the meeting table. Germany is talking to America and Russia in clipped English, asking them to elaborate. Prussia doesn't want the same things as his brother: no semantics for him, please. "When does this take effect?" he asks over Germany, the louder voice winning the others' attention.

A raspy attempt at a throat clearing catches their attention. France is taking a sip of water, coughing, then looking directly at him. There's pity in his gaze. "The abolition has already been finalized," he admits. " _Autriche, je suis profondément désolé_... your death sentence was passed over a week ago." 

America's posture snaps ramrod-straight. "You can't just tell someone that," he snaps. "Why would you even think about telling a man that, idiot?"

"I am no man, America." Austria lifts his head from his hands and stands swiftly. Germany is on his feet automatically, cane in hand, hovering around the older nation, oblivious to the stubborn power that's keeping Austria's legs from collapsing like they usually do when he stands as fast as he just did. Prussia swallows around a mysterious lump in his throat as Austria looks at each of the Allied powers, eyes lidded with regal serenity. "I accept your decision." 

"Austria," Germany says in their shared language. There's a note of pleading in his voice, and Prussia has to swallow thickly again. "Please, don't. It's a foolish decision they've reached, it makes no sense to blame you singularly just because _he_ was born in--" 

"I would like to leave now." Austria ignores him. "Is there any more news you have to deliver?" 

"No," America answers. He's staring at the table once again, eyes far away with solemnity. "That's all." 

Austria dips his head slightly in answer, then lifts his chin up. He takes his cane from Germany, then looks from each brother. "Come along, gentlemen. I believe I'm in the mood to bake some apricot knödel and need to borrow the use of someone else's stove in order to do it." He sidles out from between his chair and the table and makes his way toward the exit. Prussia watches him leave the room with an ancient fury rising within him, as Austria carries the weight of his own demise on his shoulders like it's a mere feather and tells Germany to stop and buy apricots at the market. 

" _Prussien_..." He turns back toward France; America and Russia are gone, departed through the other door, and England is walking through the door right at that moment. France's hair is also short and choppy from his own struggles during the war, but it's still long enough to hold back with a short red ribbon. Austria doesn't even have much of Mariazell anymore. "I am truly sorry for the decision that has been come to." 

Prussia shrugs, jerking his shoulders angrily. "Why?" he asks. France must taste the bitterness in his voice, and he makes a face because of it. "Like you said. You didn't decide that, your leaders did. Totally blame-free, you are." 

France shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "I personally may not have reached the decision," he says hesitantly, English thick and slow, "but I am not free of knowing how much this must hurt for you to accept. Losing one of our own always has and always will deeply affect every one of us, even the ones who sentenced them." Prussia stares at him for a long moment; the clear blue color of France's gaze is dark with pity, and it scalds him from the inside out. He closes his eyes. 

"Whatever," he says. "If you'll excuse me, I have knödel to look forward to." 

He turns and leaves France alone in that room; Austria and Germany are by the coatroom, the former trying to pull his on while the latter watches the hallway floor. He was clearly scolded for trying to do it for Austria. "Hurry up, priss," he says as he passes them by, snatching his own coat from inside the room and shrugging it on. "It's freezing cold out; I need a fire to sit near." 

"Make yourself useful and go fetch the car, then," replies Austria as he pushes one arm through a sleeve. 

Prussia jerks his head at Germany. "Hey, kid. You've got the keys, yeah? You heard the man." 

Glancing at both of them, Germany cautiously pulls the keys from his coat pocket. "I will be right outside the front door," he tells them, giving them a jingle. As he receives nods from both of them, he takes a step back then turns, speed-walking down the hallway they're standing in. 

As soon as he turns the corner, Prussia reaches around Austria and tugs the coat across his back, wrapping it around the corresponding shoulder. "Come on, little master," he says. "He's gonna be sitting in the front all day if you don't hurry it up." 

Austria tilts his head up and glares at him. "I do not want snow to cover me," he says, as cold as the snow falling. "Unlike some people, who like to roll around in it and throw it around like a child." 

Prussia smirks down at him, arm still hovering around his shoulder. "You simply don't know how to have fun, Austrian, you never have. You've _always_ been a huge stick in the mud." Austria huffs like he resents that as he grabs onto Prussia's other arm, which has unconsciously extended out like an offering of assistance. His fingernails dig into Prussia's forearm, totally on purpose, no doubt. 

"I've never been afraid to get my hands dirty," he remarks. They begin to walk, a steady pace that they fall into like a familiar rut. "I just did not see the point in flinging mud at each other and trying to knock down birds' nests with rocks, all for amusement, like you and Hungary used to do."

"Not everyone is hatched from cannonballs, I guess," Prussia sighs mockingly. They round the same corner Germany disappeared behind, and Prussia breaks from Austria's side to hold the door open for him. The wintry wind bites at him as Austria hobbles out, ungloved hands tightly clutching the cane-topper as he limps outside. "Don't slip on ice," Prussia says quietly.

The howling winds carry Austria's bitter muttering. "Now who's nagging who..?" 

Germany is standing next to the passenger side door when they exit the building completely, and he hurries to open Austria's door as the nation approaches. Austria stops and looks at him for a long moment, eyes dark and narrowed behind his glasses, but he closes them, appearing to swallow something like his pride, and bends to climb into the car. However, he leans out and grabs the door, slamming it closed before Germany can do it himself. Prussia shakes his head as Germany gives him an uncertain look. 

"Get in the car," he says to the younger nation. "We've got some apricots to pick up." 

/

Austria survives for three years after his abolishment. 

After the first twelve months, his legs are almost entirely dysfunctional, and he can hardly lift himself out of bed anymore. Russia allows Hungary to visit once a year, and the first time is a rainy evening the October following the Austrian dissolution. Prussia and Germany sit downstairs, suffering together as they listen to her weeping and crying through the ceiling. Switzerland and Liechtenstein visit in March of 1948, a patchwork quilt in the younger nation's arm. They take turns seeing Austria in private; Liechtenstein goes first, taking the quilt with her, and when she comes back, it's gone. While her brother is upstairs, which makes Prussia's stomach feel like it's in knots, she tells them how hard they worked to sew that quilt for her old caretaker. 

Germany leaves to spend New Years 1949 in Rome, and he brings the Italian twins with him when he returns. Italy Veneziano is distraught, sobbing openly and trying to hug Austria as gently as he can; Romano stands in the corner, turned away from the two on the bed, face twitching with the effort to keep his own emotions in check. The southern Italy leaves after two days, but the northern twin stays for half a year. Hungary visits again during his lengthy stay, and they spend an entire day outside, like a real family. 

Spain visits in January of 1950. He's Austria's former husband, a golden-tinged flame from centuries past, but the memory of the two of them, kneeling at the altar, golden laurels in their hair and silver bands on their fingers, is still enough to make Prussia bristle. Spain is upstairs for what seems like ages, and Germany has to send him to the store for groceries to stop him from going up there to monitor them. By the time he gets back, Spain is gone, a friendly goodbye message passed on by Germany that leaves Prussia feeling sour and weary. 

On October 26th, 1950, Austria -- impossible to kill, too stubborn to die, gloriously invincible Austria -- fades away completely.


End file.
